Smoke & Mirrors
by 1103469
Summary: A strange friendship forms between two teenagers in the small town of Derry, Maine. Eventual Henry Bowers/Beverly Marsh. Cross-posted on AO3.
1. Prologue

It was bright for a February day. Sun was out, skies were blue, and birds were chirping.

__Straight out of a fucking Bob Ross painting. __

The redhead took another drag of her cigarette, exhaling through her mouth to distract from the pain in her chapped lips. The dry cold weather had done nothing for her sensitive skin this time of year.

School hadn't been cancelled since the snowstorm ended in January. Lots of folks (parents) were eager to get (their kids) out of the house, having been snowed in for months. The teachers and administrators readjusted their schedules to account for students missing their courses during that time.

Which made Beverly all the gladder.

Starting high school was tough when puberty hit. Hair and zits appeared in strange places, her body started to develop curves, and she discovered the bloody joy of womanhood. When these symptoms were mixed in with bullies, academic stress, and her creepy dad, it was enough to make her scream.

Now that she was able to use school as an excuse to stay away from home as long as possible, the redhead could finally focus on other teenage things like…

Social life. __Not if Greta Keene has anything to say. Okay, what about…__

Puberty. __Thank God for the library's textbooks on medicine even if it took hours to get through the jargon, so that was covered. Maybe…__

Academics. __I'm not doing great, but I'm not doing bad either. __

The fourteen-year-old looked at the burning end of the cig between her fingers and wondered about the distant future. Would her life turn around like Cinderella when she marries a prince, or would she die in an alleyway after being raped and murdered?

__Why not both? Ha, ha, ha, my mind is a shitty landscape. __

Then, footsteps grinded on the gravel ground near her. Beverly turned her head towards the source of the sound.

It was Henry Bowers. Without his gang.

Heart pounding and fingers trembling, the girl didn't know whether to be terrified or relieved the boy was alone. She settled on what she hoped was nonchalance on her face and tried to ignore his nearing presence.

The boy leaned against the brick wall a few inches away from her, comfortably like he owned the whole view of the school's back-end parking lot.

Just as Beverly brought the yellow end of the stubby cig to her lips, the boy held out his hand in front of her.

Knowingly, the girl grabbed her packet from her backpack and placed a brand-new cigarette in his palm. Henry expertly twirled the cig around his fingers until it landed between his index and middle digits.

Mesmerized, Beverly almost forgot to take out her lighter for his silent request. She was reluctant to use the cartridge since it was running low on fluid, but Henry Bowers could never be denied.

__Or could he be? __

In a subtle act of defiance, the girl lit her lighter halfway between the two teenagers, not towards the expecting cigarette.

A few tense seconds passed before Henry realized she wouldn't budge. Eyebrows furrowed, his cobalt orbs gazed into Beverly's emerald pools.

__If you want it, come get it. __

The boy chuckled and let out a dangerous smirk. He was entertained by her challenge, conceding to move his cigarette to her lighter, but not without his input. He placed the Camel to his lips, bringing his face alarmingly close to the dancing flame while staring at Beverly's defiant yet curious eyes.

As soon as embers started forming, Henry leaned back against the wall and exhaled a thick plume of smoke. Beverly immediately switched off the flame and stuffed the cartridge in her pocket.

Moments strolled by in silence for the two teenagers, one debating how to make the best circumstances in her life and the other wishing to forget the troubles of his.

Little did they know they would see each other more frequently, unwittingly or not.


	2. Shackles

**Warning: verbal abuse, threats of sexual abuse**

* * *

Sucking at school was stressful. Giving attention to the gang was stressful. Getting beat by his dad was stressful.

If he didn't die by his father's hands first, the pressure of Derry would kill him. The blond clenched his fists, nearly breaking his pencil. With the sound of cracking wood, Henry emerged from the fogginess of his thoughts and started to focus on what was sitting in front of him.

Right. The social studies quiz.

Trying to make sense of the words, the boy attempted to answer at least one question, so he could say that he tried.

"How did the appeasement fail to halt Germany from invading Poland in 1939?"

_…___Well, shit. __

The remainder of class time flew by as Henry scribbled nonsense under each question. Once the lunch bell rang, he threw the quiz at the teacher's desk and ran out the door.

He needed a smoke, but he forgot his pack.

After getting a kid to spill on who had cigs, the blond located Beverly Marsh in the back of the school's parking lot.

Henry didn't know much about her other than the filth spewed from Greta Keene's mouth. Although Greta came from an affluent background due to her dad's pharmaceutical company, she wasn't exactly known for her generosity.

Beverly Marsh, from what he remembered, was a quiet girl with auburn hair who mainly kept to herself. Considering Miss Keene's words, it was more likely that people avoided her like the plague. She was two years younger than he was.

A freshman to his sophomore, he thought bitterly.

It still stung being held back a year and knowing it would happen for the second time around. The first semester, teachers at Derry High showed pity for the troublemaking son of the local sheriff. They let him off easy at times, grading his papers a little too leniently. Now, as the adults come to realize that Henry would not willingly put in any effort at all, disappointment and apathy marred their faces.

What they didn't know was that motivation and attention in school had left him the day Oscar whipped out his belt, roaring at such a pathetic excuse for a son. Being a failure was all Henry had ever known—all he was ever taught, so why should he give a shit now?

The boy, opening his eyes at the bright blue sky, wished there would be something for once in his life that didn't suck. Something that would bring him happiness instead of anger and pain.

Not that he didn't enjoy spending time terrorizing Derry with the gang. Belch and Vic were alright guys and had his back whenever. Belch, with his shiny blue Trans Am, remained the lookout while Vic, albeit a scrawny guy, impressively did the grunt work. Patrick, of course, had a few screws loose, but that only added creativity to the bullying.

It was just that Henry wanted—no, needed—some peace of mind. An escape from this godforsaken life.

Following the last drag of his cigarette, the blond rubbed his eyes and ran his other hand through his bronze mullet. After handing him a stick of Spearmint, the redhead already left minutes ago when the bell rang. He hadn't given her a glance, his mind distracted with dark reflection. The teenager put out the stub with his boot and unwrapped the foiled stick.

__Fuck this place.__

Shivering in the winter cold, Henry trudged back to the warm confines of the school, absently chewing on the minty gum.

* * *

"Hey! Hey, Stan! Stan, Stan, Stan, Stan, Stan! Stan the Man!" A boy with large glasses that seemed comical for his wide eyes peeked over the shoulder of a lean, curly-haired classmate who wore a yarmulke.

Stanley Uris sighed, knowing he would regret answering. He closed his notebook and looked up at his friend since first grade. "What, Richie?"

Richie Tozier grinned. "Guessed who slept over at my place last night?"

Rolling his eyes, Stan was about to open his mouth until a short freshman with puppy-dog eyes replied.

"If the answer's along the lines of 'your mom', I swear, Richie, I'm gonna die early 'cause of you." Eddie Kaspbrack, in the middle of counting his tablets on the napkin-covered school bench, wiped his hands with dedicated germophobic attentiveness.

"Then, you can say that my jokes are __killer__." Richie ducked behind Stan from Eddie's incoming projectile pills.

"Your jokes are as lame as Luigi!" Eddie flung another tablet.

"G-g-guys, cut it out. Stan n-needs to study for his t-test next period," a lanky, brown-haired boy said while poking at his meager sandwich. Bill Denborough had rushed for the school bus this morning, only having enough time to place lettuce and tomato, but not deli meat, with the bread.

"Sorry, man." Richie climbed over the bench to sit next to Stan who nodded thankfully at Bill before going back to his studies. "Dude, that is a sad fucking sandwich if I ever saw one."

A chubby hand belonging to Ben Hanscom placed an apple next to sparse meal. "Here, Bill. You need it more than I do."

"Thanks, B-Ben." Bill smiled gratefully and reached for the glossy red fruit. "H-how's Ms. Samuel's class so far? I've heard trig w-was hard."

"You should ask Mike. He's been getting A's on everything." Ben nodded to the black kid sitting next to him.

Mike Hanlon looked up from eating his spaghetti lunch. "Mm-mmm. Gah eh anee fuf uh eyash kis."

"What?" Eddie squinted.

Mike, having swallowed his food, enunciated, "Got an eighty-five on the last quiz."

"Shit, dude," Richie blinked. "How is it that you skipped a grade? You're, like, the same age as us! Except for Ben. He's old."

Ben choked on his food in response, leaving Billy to swat his back multiple times. Simultaneously, Mike rolled his eyes at Richie. "Ben is only a year ahead of us. You alright, man?"

Giving a thumbs up, the chubby kid coughed some.

Once he was certain the sophomore was okay, Mike shrugged, "Granddad made sure homeschool was hard work. Didn't want any slackin' off." Leroy disciplined his grandson thoroughly on important life aspects like education, work, and even home economics. The knowledge that their family was the only minority group in a town rife with racist history pressured the Hanlons to find whatever type of success any way they can, even if it's about school.

Erasing this sober thought, Mike brought another bite of lukewarm spaghetti to his open mouth.

"Hey, speaking of slackin' off, let's all go to that new record store this weekend!" Eddie exclaimed. He'd been wanting to visit since it opened last week when the snowstorm finally let off. He heard from various upperclassmen that it was a "totally chill hangout".

Bill asked, "The one that rep-p-placed the old warehouse on Main Street?"

"I'd be down for Saturday afternoon," Stan piped up from his notebook. "…after service."

Richie started snickering. "Who's serving who?"

Sighing, Stan closed his notebook, this time to swing and batter the comic with. Everyone in the table grinned or chuckled at the sight of poor Richie swatting back against Stan's annoyance.

"Ow, ow, okay, Jesus fucking Christ! I get it!" Richie fixed his shirt and glasses while the boy with the yarmulke returned to studying.

"Can I bring Georgie along? I'm sup-p-posed to look after h-him that day," Bill stammered. His parents were busy that weekend, Sharon with teaching piano lessons and Zach working overtime at the Bangor Plant.

"Yeah, dude! But, you might wanna keep him away from Trashmouth over there," Eddie pointed.

Richie sniffed, "You know what? I'm not gonna feel insulted, Kaspbrack." Arms crossed, he turned away from Eddie's direction, "Instead, I'm gonna take it as a compliment."

Eventually, every boy agreed to meet at Eddie's house before biking to the record store for that Saturday afternoon. Mrs. Kaspbrack wouldn't allow her only son to leave home alone unless he was accompanied by his friends. The lunch bell rang, and each member of the Losers club said their farewells and promises to hang out and study after school. They all went back to their respective courses, dreading class and hoping the weekend would arrive soon enough.

* * *

Beverly, wondering what to do with her life, finally found her answer when she walked past a flyer on her way home from the library.

The red piece of paper stuck out on the graffitied lamp post, barely held down by that godawful blue protective tape.

She casually glanced at the flyer until noticing the large bolded words. Taking a few steps backward, the redhead carefully read the text.

**JOB OPENINGS FOR**

**CASHIER**  
**BARISTA**  
**STAGE TECHNICIAN**

**NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY**

**AT THE CHRISTINE RECORD STORE**  
**(FORMERLY WOODROW WAREHOUSE)**

**MON-THURS: 9AM-7PM**  
**FRI-SAT: 10AM-9PM**  
**(HOURS MAY CHANGE)**  
**PHONE #: (207) 200-5004**

__Huh, "The Christine". Odd name. __

Beverly considered the job positions listed. Although she was relieved school opened after the snowstorm, she had trouble figuring out how to extend her absence from home. There weren't many extracurricular activities for her to partake in. Clubs at school were excluding her (__Thanks, Greta, that bitch__). Joining a sports team costed money she couldn't ask her dad for. Sighing, she took down the red flyer and stuffed it in her ratty backpack.

Maybe if she's lucky, the owners at The Christine wouldn't care about her reputation.

Looking down at her wristwatch, Beverly realized it was close to her curfew and started jogging briskly on the snowy asphalt. The winter frost had yet to melt completely as February approached March.

The redhead fortunately made it back home before five-thirty in the evening. This left her around half an hour to cook dinner until Alvin Marsh arrived from his work as hospital maintenance. She rummaged around the fridge and the pantry, finding some eggs, potatoes, and canned beans with sausage. With some luck and patience, she turned on the stove without accidentally burning herself.

It wasn't like this, her cooking for the both of them. Back then, her mother, a hardworking waitress who learned tricks from the chef at the local diner, flipped blueberry pancakes and swirled maple syrup in a spectacular fashion, never failing to entertain her husband and daughter. On the rare occasions when both parents could afford to have time off, Elfrinda "Linda" Marsh would treat the family with baked casserole, a recipe she had wanted to pass along to her daughter.

_"___Someday, I'll show you how to make it exactly the way my momma taught me, Bevey." Linda placed the dish on the table. "The way the women in our family made it."__

Beverly remembered her mom's mossy-green irises. She remembered her curly auburn locks. Most importantly, she remembered the expectations her mother placed on her. Be a good daughter, be a good girl, don't argue, keep quiet. The fourteen-year-old wondered if her mother personally wanted her to be a rule-abiding goody-two shoes or if this dream was for her daughter's sake. There were times when Mr. Marsh's displeasure peppered bruises on his wife's wrists or—God forbid—when his irritability showed in public, but Linda was always there to shield Beverly from the worst of it.

Now, there's nobody to protect her.

SLAM!

At the sound of the fenced door closing against the metal frame, the girl realized her father arrived earlier than expected. Shit, she was still chopping potatoes!

"Bevey? You here?" Alvin's voice emanated from the living room.

Reluctantly, she responded, "I'm in the kitchen, Dad!"

The redhead managed to dump the potatoes into the frying pan and start pouring the beans into a pot before her father walked in. As she broke and whisked the eggs in a chipped bowl, Beverly turned to see Mr. Marsh leaning against the door frame.

Her father's stoic face belied a simmering anger.

__Oh, no. __

The girl stood still, face down and eyes glued to the ceramic bowl she was holding. Years of living in the same household as Alvin Marsh taught her that maintaining timidity presented a better picture of obedience—and earned less backhands.

"Some folks were telling me what you've been up to at school, Bevey." Alvin took a step towards her.

"They said that you were sleeping around with the students."

One step again.

"That you were chasing after boys."

Another step.

"Like a whore," he whispered at the last word. He was close enough for her to smell his awful cologne, the bowl of beaten eggs being the only thing distancing him.

"Is that true?" Her father's hand reached towards her face, tracing his fingers from her temple down her cheek...

Jawline…

Neck…

Collarbone…

"Are you still my little girl, Bevey?"

Praying for courage and mercy, the teenager disclosed her fear and hurt to paint her countenance. Tears welling in those emerald eyes, she looked up at her father's frightening gaze.

"I am your girl, Daddy." A droplet rolled down her cheek. "I always am."

The redhead quickly decided to place the bowl on the counter and hug her father before she could regret it. "It's those girls, Greta Keene and her friends. They've been lying and spreading rumors about me since I caught them cheating in seventh grade."

Tightening her hold, her body started wracking with sobs. "You remember, Daddy, don't you? Those girls from the rich west side of town?"

She buried her face in his blue worker's uniform. "They're just rumors, Daddy… You know I'll always be your girl."

Letting out another sob to fill the tense atmosphere, the redhead hoped her actions convinced Mr. Marsh to forget his wandering fingers and to remember his role as a father.

What seemed a millennium later, Beverly felt the man circle his arms around her. Although her dad's touch made her flesh crawl, she clung onto him like a lifeline.

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP.

The microwave had announced its finished task.

Slowly, Alvin pulled back, his steel eyes boring intently into hers. "Alright, baby girl. I believe you." His thumb brushed away her tears. The man gave her a once-over, "Clean yourself up, and finish making dinner. Okay?"

Without a word, she nodded as Mr. Marsh retreated to the living room, intending to watch some TV. Beverly harshly wiped away her tears and resumed her duties, isolated in the now claustrophobically narrow aisle of the kitchen.

Later that night, after allowing herself to genuinely weep in the comfort of her bedroom, the girl looked over the red flyer, both hands holding onto the piece of paper while she curled up in bed.

The redhead knew she was screwed if she continued living in the Marsh household. One day, her acting wouldn't be enough to drive away his depravity or his anger. Alvin Marsh would do more than linger his fingers on her collarbone. He had been testing whatever boundaries were left between parent and child when cancer defeated Linda last year. It was a dreadful thought to be imprisoned by the perverted desires of a man who should have been her protector.

Beverly wished her mother was alive. The feeling of surviving wasn't so prominent when Linda was around to love and shelter her. She was forced to grow up too soon in her absence. She would be forced to keep surviving for the rest of her life if she lived with her father.

The teenager shifted her attention towards the flyer. A job could give her time away from home. It would provide money she could use to convince her dad to delay or abolish her curfew while she could simultaneously stash away portions of the income for herself. With the money, she could eventually save up to go to college or even move out of Derry altogether when she turned eighteen.

Once she finished making plans to visit the record store as soon as possible, Beverly Marsh at last closed her eyes and dreamed of a hopeful future untainted by the looming danger of abuse.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:

**If there should be any warnings I've missed mentioning, please let me know! I'll update the notes/tags.**

**The phone number posted was pulled from a random phone number generator. I also made some adjustments to Ben's age and Mike's addition to Derry High to fit with the storyline. **

**Leave a review if you like the chapter/have constructive criticism!**


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